


The kind of people you meet on airplanes

by alterocentrist



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe, Christmas Eve, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere, around the back of the plane, a baby started crying. But the woman’s expression never faltered. It was uncanny. Who was this happy flying on Christmas Eve? Nobody.</p>
<p>Carmilla only hoped that her seatmate wasn’t the one every frequent flyer dreaded to encounter. She was lucky enough to have avoided those somehow. If this flight was going to be her baptism of fire, then she would swear off Christmas forever.</p>
<p>This has a sequel: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3178057">"Now we're there, and we've only just begun"</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The kind of people you meet on airplanes

Haggard people amassed the carpeted expanse of the airport, steeling their pre-flight nerves with cocktails, vainly attempting to keep their children under control, and browsing the Duty Free stores for last minute Christmas shopping.

It was Christmas Eve at Stockholm Arlanda Airport. Carmilla watched the chaos unfold, believing that her holidays could not get any worse. An emergency business trip on the worst possible day to travel? It was, indeed, the most wonderful time of the year.

* * *

But it wasn’t _all_ bad; she managed to get a window seat—her favourite—on the plane. She took her time settling in, scanning her section for the people she would be with for the next few hours. There was one family with three children, but mostly solo travellers and couples who looked just as weary as she felt.

She sat down and checked through the items in her handbag. _Phone?_ Switched off. _iPad?_ Airplane mode. _Hairbrush?_ Check.

“Oh, great!” An unusually _awake_ voice caused her to look up. “Hi there.” It belonged to a short woman with long, thick, golden brown hair and a bright smile. She had a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder, and a dark green jacket draped over her left arm.

“Hello,” Carmilla said.

The woman continued in heavily accented—but reasonably fluent—Swedish: “I guess I’m your seatmate.”

Carmilla managed a tight smile. “Guess so,” she said, before turning her attention back to her handbag. She heard her seatmate’s soft grunting as she stowed her satchel and jacket in the overhead compartment. She instinctively inched away when the woman settled in the aisle seat beside her. _Passport?_ Check.

“Oh, thank god!” the woman said, this time—to Carmilla’s surprise—in perfect German. “I’m sorry, I saw your passport, do you mind if I talk to you in German? Swedish gives me a headache.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Carmilla replied, matching the woman’s code-switch. She didn’t even remember the last time she had verbally conversed with someone in her native tongue. ”I apologise,” the words were rust in her mouth, “I’m still getting out of Swedish mode.”

“Well, so am I.” That bright smile again. Somewhere, around the back of the plane, a baby started crying. But the woman’s expression never faltered. It was uncanny. Who was _this_ happy flying on Christmas Eve? Nobody.

Carmilla only hoped that her seatmate wasn’t the one every frequent flyer dreaded to encounter. She was lucky enough to have avoided those somehow. If this flight was going to be her baptism of fire, then she would swear off Christmas forever.

* * *

Twenty minutes up in the air and her seatmate had been pleasant so far. She flipped through the inflight magazine, nodding and humming occasionally, before clamping a pair of headphones over her head and turning on her iPod. Carmilla noticed how much the woman made an effort to make herself physically scarce without impinging on her comfort, and really, Carmilla was relieved.

The flight attendants walked down the aisles with trays of small cups of orange juice and packets of peanuts. Carmilla helped herself to the cool beverage, the smell and taste of which was refreshing, especially against the artificially sterile scent of plane oxygen. Her seatmate, on the other hand, immediately got into her peanut packet.

She must have felt the amused look that Carmilla was giving her, because she removed her headphones and grinned sheepishly. “I’ve been on so many flights that I’ve learned to treat the whole deal as something to be excited about,” she said. The sound of crunching peanuts punctuated her words. “Fake it until you make it.”

“I have to commend you on being able to keep it up even on a day like this,” Carmilla said.

“On a day like what?”

“Christmas Eve.”

“Ah,” the woman smirked, “you’re a grinch.”

Carmilla shrugged. “It’s not very difficult to be one, the way our world is,” she said. “This short flight is okay, considering, but I’ve got to get on another plane after getting off this one.”

“To where?” the woman asked.

“Toronto.” Carmilla frowned.

The woman straightened up. “No way!” she said. “I’m going there too. Are you going for a holiday, or –” She caught herself. “Sorry, I am prying, aren’t I?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Carmilla said. “I’m going for work, actually. My boss needs me to close a deal before New Year’s Eve otherwise our project falls apart. It’s ridiculous.” She was a junior curator at Stockholm’s Moderna Museet, and she had been asked to fetch a piece from Toronto that they _needed_ for an exhibit opening during their New Year’s Eve gala.

“That _is_ ridiculous,” the woman agreed. “I’m sorry about that. I completely understand your whole grinch vibe going on,” she gestured vaguely at Carmilla, “here now.”

“And I’m assuming you’re going for a holiday.”

“Visiting family, actually.” The woman pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Two weeks, and then back to Stockholm for work. It’s not long enough.”

Carmilla wouldn’t know; she was estranged from her family members, whom she never had a close relationship with, even in her childhood. But the fondness in her seatmate’s voice made her ache for that feeling anyway. “But such is life,” she said.

The woman nodded. There was a momentary lull in the conversation before she put her headphones back on, and pressed play on her iPod.

Carmilla took that as a cue to busy herself. Not even bothering with the festive-themed inflight entertainment system—the most exciting choice was between _You’ve Got Mail_ and _When Harry Met Sally_ —Carmilla bent down to retrieve a paperback book that was randomly thrown in her handbag sometime during packing.

When she got the call last night to tell her she needed to be on the next plane to Toronto, she made the mistake of electing her tipsy friend to help her pack. She had to chuckle when she read the cover. The book’s title, in English, was, _Retrograde Motion: The toxic stagnation of Canadian parliamentary politics_.

Topical. LaFontaine did always have a sense of humour. Even more so after three beers.

There was a sudden movement next to her. Her seatmate had whipped off her headphones. “Sorry, I just thought I forgot something,” she said hastily when Carmilla turned to look. She slightly relaxed in her seat. “Hey, you know what else I’ve learned to love about flying?” she asked Carmilla.

“What?”

“Being able to meet people and hear some of their stories, get to know them a little bit. I mean, I’m a very curious person, so I guess I naturally love it,” the woman said. “Your lives cross for a few hours all because you happen to share a little space a few thousand kilometres above ground. Why not take take a chance, right?”

Carmilla braced herself for a launch straight into a heart-to-heart conversation, but the woman just smiled and eyed the book on her lap, before putting her headphones over her ears again.

* * *

“Okay, real talk,” the woman said, after their meal trays had been taken away. “Are you some sort of _method_ traveller?”

Carmilla looked up from the page she was reading. She was already almost a third of the way through. She had bought the book months ago, but never had the time to read it, and now she was engrossed. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“You’re reading a book about Canada, and it’s not even about travel. It’s about _politics_. That’s a little hardcore for someone who’s going to be in the country for less than a week.”

“It’s not on purpose! I told my friend to throw a book into my bag last night, when we were having drinks, and my boss called to tell me I have to be on this plane today,” Carmilla explained. “I think it was supposed to be a joke, but I’m enjoying it so far.” She made a mental note to send LaFontaine a message about it once she landed in Reykjavik.

Her seatmate raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Have you read it before?”

“This book? Nah, this has to be the first time,” Carmilla replied. “I do like the author’s other books, though. I’ve read those.”

“Same here,” her seatmate said. “ _Retrograde Motion_ is good but I think my favourite one has to be the one about the ethical consumption industry.”

Carmilla found herself smiling and nodding enthusiastically. “Yes! That’s my favourite, too,” she said. “But I have to say, this,” she tapped her copy of _Retrograde Motion_ , “is probably her most controversial, her most hard-hitting.”

“Now, why do you say that?”

“Well, how often is it that someone who is a journalist by profession, can write three hundred and twenty _very_ comprehensive pages on why Canada’s government sucks and a few ideas to fix it without coming off as an insane blowhard conspiracy theorist?”

“But maybe the author is an insane blowhard conspiracy theorist.”

“ _No_.” Carmilla shook her head. “She refers to academic theory extensively, along with all her other research that hasn’t come out of places like universities. She just didn’t pull this stuff out of thin air. She has some big ideas on how a country should be run, and to me, that’s a pretty ballsy issue to come out swinging with.”

“What?” The woman folded her arms. “You don’t think that journalists have a responsibility to see what’s wrong, talk about it, and take a stand?”

“Well, of course I do,” Carmilla said. “I’m just saying, of all the battles to pick.”

“Hmm, something tells me, that even for someone who seems to have a fighting spirit, you don’t see many battles.” She kept the tone of her voice light, but her eyes—dark gold with brown and green flecks, Carmilla noted—bore into Carmilla’s.

“Well, uh –” Carmilla was at a brief loss for words. “Fighting spirit, huh?”

“You were just about to get into a debate over political journalism with your _plane seatmate_.”

“ _Were_?” Carmilla scoffed playfully. “Maybe I want to continue this debate.”

The woman laughed briefly, then her expression became serious, yet sincere. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe I want you to continue it, too. But it’s Christmas Eve.”

“Maybe I’m the sort of person who starts crap over the Christmas turkey.” The banter had filled her with unusual bravado; she was willing to go toe-to-toe with this woman, a _complete stranger_ , just because it was _fun_.

Carmilla swore that the woman’s eyes flitted down to her lips for a split-second, before resuming their eye contact. “Maybe,” she spoke slower this time, “maybe that’s the sort of person I like.”

* * *

The airport in Reykjavik seemed less hectic, especially since the airline was handling her transfer flight, so Carmilla spent the layover time freshening up and walking around to stretch her legs. With forty minutes left before boarding, she decided to indulge in a drink at the lounge bar closest to her gate.

While walking towards the bar, she spotted her seatmate standing by a convenience store, magazine in one hand and a bag of candy in the other. She looked utterly lost.

Waving at her, Carmilla walked over. “You okay?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah. I guess I’m just a little bit disoriented,” she replied. She adjusted the jacket draped over her arm. “You making your way to the gate?”

“I was thinking of getting a drink,” she said. “Want me to get you one?”

“You sure?”

“Of course.” With a tilt of her head, she beckoned the woman to follow her. They avoided the bar stools, which were half-occupied with disgruntled businessmen, and made themselves comfortable in a nearby booth instead. “What would you like?”

“Can you see if they’ve got some Ölvisholt Skaði. On tap, if they have it?” the woman asked. “If not, then Heineken will do.”

“All right, then,” Carmilla said, slightly intrigued by her request. She went to the bar and ordered the Icelandic beer—which they had stocked—for her seatmate and whiskey on the rocks for herself. She returned to the booth, drinks in hand, to see the woman smiling up at her. “What?”

“You can speak Icelandic.”

“It’s not as good as my Swedish.” Carmilla handed her the glass of beer, then sat down across and sipped on her whiskey. “How about you? You know Icelandic?” She nodded towards the beer.

“Nah, I just really like this beer.” The woman raised the glass to her lips and took a good drink. “Thanks for getting this, by the way.”

“No problem.”

“So, Icelandic, Swedish, German… how did you manage that?”

“Lots and lots of travelling,” Carmilla said. “German is my mother tongue, but I learned French growing up, and I studied and worked in Paris for a few years, too. And of course, I know English, and I can hold up a good conversation in Italian.” She shrugged. “It’s definitely better than my Swedish or Icelandic.” On any other day, it should have felt boastful, but there was something about this woman that reassured Carmilla that she didn’t mind.

“Well, your French is better than mine, probably. And I don’t know any Italian or Icelandic, so you got me there,” she told Carmilla.

“But how would you know about Icelandic beer?” Carmilla asked.

The woman averted her gaze, her eyes dimming a little. “My ex-girlfriend was kind of a beer enthusiast, I guess,” she said. “It rubbed off on me. I don’t drink much, but if I do, it’s probably something she recommended.”

“That’s cool. I’m assuming she’s not Swedish,” Carmilla said. “I’ve never actually met a Swedish person who likes beer enough to be considered an ‘enthusiast’.”

“Yeah, same here.” The woman laughed. “But yes, she’s from Canada, too.”

“Lemme guess, you left Canada because of the heartbreak.”

“Oh, not quite, but not being there sure helped,” the woman replied. She took another drink of beer and snorted. “I probably will see her, though. For some reason, she and my dad are still in touch. I think he likes her because she reminds her a lot of him. Which is kinda why we broke up.” She waved dismissively. “Anyway, I think I might be making you uncomfortable with all this personal stuff.” She raised the glass to her lips once more, this time for a long, greedy drink that was remarkable for someone her size.

Carmilla swilled her whiskey before downing a third of it in one swallow. She suppressed a cringe at the sudden burning sensation. “Hey, it’s cool,” she said. “You said you love hearing about other people’s stories when you’re travelling. And I was skeptical before, but now I think I get why.”

The admission was strange. She didn’t know if it was the holiday buzz of the airport, the immediate aftereffects of the whiskey, or this woman’s wide, sincere eyes intently watching her, but for the first time in a long time, she felt bold.

* * *

Her seat on the plane to Toronto was an aisle seat in the middle rows, seated next to a stuffy old man who grimaced every time he shifted. She hunched in her chair and pulled her book out as the man noisily rummaged through his bag.

“Excuse me, sir,” someone from above her spoke in English. “There was a mix-up at the check-in desk and I got separated from my friend here. Would you terribly mind if you and I swapped seats?” A plaid-clad forearm crossed Carmilla’s sightline, causing her to look up. It was her seatmate from the flight to Reykjavik, presenting a boarding pass to her new seatmate. “I have a bulkhead aisle seat, right by the toilets.”

Unsurprisingly, the man accepted the offer, thanking the woman profusely. Carmilla stood up to let him pass, and stayed standing as the woman placed her belongings in the overhead compartment and sidled into the row to sit down.

“That was nice.”

The woman had switched back to German: “I was about to sit down when I saw that your situation was looking a little dire.” She smiled. “And my new seatmate is a surly teenager. I don’t think I have enough energy for armrest territory wars, and telling him that I appreciate his death metal, but could he please turn his headphones down, for his sake and mine?”

“Thanks for the save, though. It reminded me that you’re actually Canadian,” Carmilla joked.

“Hey, I just got a poor old man to sit in that seat next to that guy,” the woman said. “A true Canadian would have stuck through it, politeness intact.”

“Ah, if you want to talk about self-sacrifice, let me remind you that you just swapped a bulkhead aisle seat to be _squished_ in the middle of the row,” Carmilla said. “With _me_ as a seatmate. Again.”

The woman shrugged. “You’re not so bad.”

* * *

Carmilla tucked her book in the seat pocket in front of her when she heard the meal trolleys being wheeled out by the flight attendants. The woman beside her paused her screen and took her headphones off. “Dinner?” she asked.

“Seems so,” Carmilla said.

They began eating as soon as they were served their meals. The woman swallowed down her first bite of pasta, then said, “So, the inflight entertainment selection is way below your standards, huh, Miss Art Curator?”

Carmilla eyes the paused film on her seatmate’s screen—perhaps not surprisingly, it was _Love, Actually_ —and snorted over her meal tray. “Holiday-themed movies give people false hope,” she said. “Like, newsflash, you’re never gonna have a stress-free holiday. And no, your dysfunctional family isn’t going to pull it together at the last minute because of the spirit of Christmas.”

“I hit a nerve,” the woman said soberly, her eyes regarding Carmilla with a mixture of concern and interest.

“I haven’t seen my family since before I graduated from university. We fell out. It was messy,” Carmilla said. Her mother wanted her to return home to Vienna to take over the family business after graduation, because her youngest brother was a truly incompetent fool, but instead, Carmilla went to live in New York with her girlfriend—the first relationship she has been in that felt _permanent_ —at the time. The relationship imploded after a year, but instead of returning to Vienna with her tail between her legs, Carmilla moved back to Paris instead. Without a girlfriend. Without a family.

“The last few years I’ve been spending the holidays with my friends in Stockholm,” she continued. “I mean, it’s great. They’re lovely people. But I can no longer stomach these movies because they mostly romanticise Christmas with people who share DNA with each other. Which is untrue, not to mention narrow-minded.”

“I’m sorry about that,” the woman said.

Carmilla shook her head. “I’m –” she breathed, “I’m trying to move on and find other ways to keep my life beautiful and fulfilling.” Admittedly, she hadn’t been trying. She chalked it up to being lazy, or being scared. But perhaps, this long encounter with a stranger is her start at giving it another shot.

* * *

“You know, I don’t entirely buy this author’s argument on changing to a proportional representation system,” Carmilla said. She shut the book and placed it on her lap. “I mean, give me an example of a country where it’s worked out smoothly.”

“Do you honestly expect any system of government in a democracy to work out _smoothly_?” her seatmate asked, her eyebrows betraying how incredulous she found Carmilla’s remark.

“Look at how proportional representation has worked out in Israel,” Carmilla said. “They have such a fragmented parliament that it’s some sort of miracle that things actually get done at all! Then look at Germany, where despite proportional representation, there is little differentiation between the major parties so nothing much changes no matter who’s in power.”

“But then you look at the parliament of New Zealand, where it’s just about impossible to get anything done without cooperating with the other parties. Their parliament is known as the most efficient in the world,” the woman countered.

“Yes, if you’re one of those who think that the number of bills passed alone is a good indicator of how efficient a government is.”

“Well, in a democracy, governments need to pass laws and make policies to be able to do things. How else would you measure their efficiency?” The woman ran a hand through her hair. “Also, proportional representation prevents parliament from being controlled by groups with certain interests while everyone else’s interests gets pushed aside.”

Carmilla scowled. “Government isn’t so much about the representation of ideologies than it is about working together to run a country,” she said. “And that means you shouldn’t just pass bills here and there, just so you could say you did.”

“By that logic, you shouldn’t have any complaints about Germany.”

“I didn’t say that governments should stay practically dormant just so affairs remain relatively cruisey,” Carmilla said. She could feel blood rushing up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. “They should constantly try to see where they can be doing things better. That hasn’t happened over there in a while, in my opinion.”

For a moment, she thought that her seatmate was going to argue further. But then her tense jaw slackened into that bright smile that Carmilla was now acquainted with. “Wow, I didn’t peg you for someone who knew an awful lot about politics,” she said.

“It was my minor at university.”

“Ah. It was one of my majors.”

“I’m totally not surprised.” Carmilla smirked.

The woman gave her a warning look, in jest. “I hope you don’t think I’m _that_ predictable,” she said. “I bet that there are still a lot of things about me that will surprise you.”

“Oh, try me.”

Carmilla did not miss that telltale glint in her eye.

* * *

The sensation of a soft, slightly scratchy, woven fabric beneath her cheek was the first thing that registered in Carmilla’s brain when she woke up. That was when she realised that at some point during the flight, she had fallen asleep. On her seatmate. Who didn’t seem to mind.

“Hey there,” the woman said, as Carmilla raised her head from her shoulder. “Good sleep?”

“As good as it gets,” Carmilla croaked. “Oh god, did you manage to get any rest? I’m sorry for falling asleep on you. I didn’t even realise.”

“It’s cool, really, please don’t apologise,” the woman told her, shaking her head. “And yes, I only had a half-hour nap, but once I get back to my dad’s place, he’ll probably just fix me something to eat, then send me straight to bed for the big day tomorrow, so it’s no big deal.”

Carmilla checked the time. They were landing in just over an hour. She excused herself to go to the toilet. When she got back, her seatmate had unlatched her table, on which she was filling in her departure card. Carmilla had completed her departure card just before takeoff, so she did a final check of the contents of her handbag instead. She was about to put _Retrograde Motion_ in the bag when the name on her seatmate’s open passport caught her eye.

She peered over at the passport, then on the author’s name on the cover of the book. She turned the paperback over and read the author’s brief biography: “Laura Hollis is a journalist and writer from Toronto, Canada. She attended the University of Toronto before completing her postgraduate studies as a scholar at the London School of Economics. She has written about politics, capitalism and consumption, and social justice for several English-language publications around the world. _Retrograde Motion_ is her third book.”

“Wait a minute,” she muttered. Her seatmate was articulate, multilingual, Canadian _and_ well-versed in politics, not to mention _very, very familiar_ with Laura Hollis’s arguments.

The woman turned to look at her. “Pardon?”

Her passport was in full view now. “You’re –” Carmilla could barely say the words, “you’re Laura Hollis.”

“Well, _shit_ ,” the woman spoke in English, but she was grinning. “You caught me.”

“Oh my god.” Carmilla dropped the book in her bag, then buried her face in her hands. She just unknowingly engaged in a lengthy discussion about a book with the author of the book. “Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed,” she said, in English too. “Do you do this with all your seatmates?”

“I was going to introduce myself back in Stockholm, until I saw you take out the book from your bag,” the woman—well, _Laura Hollis_ —explained. “Please don’t think I was trying to play a bad joke. I wanted to talk to you without, you know, a filter. And I thought that if I told you that I wrote the book you unintentionally brought on a flight, you wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“You got that right.” Carmilla fought to keep eye contact with her, despite her shame. “I don’t think I even want to keep talking to you now. _God_. This is embarrassing. I’m so sorry for arguing with you.”

“No, I enjoyed it, honestly.” She had switched back to German, and that was when Carmilla noticed that some of the nearby passengers were looking at them, and possibly listening in. Her seatmate was speaking in German, instead of English, as an attempt to keep their conversation more private. “It was one of the better, more productive and nuanced discussions that I’ve had about any of my work. I’m surrounded by blowhards too often. You’re refreshing.” She raked her fingers through her hair again, before lightly elbowing Carmilla. “So, it’s about time for a proper introduction. What _is_ your name?”

“Carmilla. Carmilla Karnstein.”

“I’m Laura.” She offered Carmilla her hand. “Hollis,” she added. “But you already knew that.”

Carmilla shook her hand, then winced as she remembered what happened not so long ago. “Oh god,” she said. “I fell asleep on you! Did I drool?” She checked the shoulder of Laura’s shirt immediately.

“No, you didn’t. Don’t worry about it,” Laura said, laughing.

“Here’s a tip: get someone to put a photo of you on your books.”

“Ah, no way,” Laura said. “I thought that people won’t take my work as seriously if they pick up my book off the shelves and then check to see what I look like by flipping to the author biography. I am aware that I look around eighteen, tops. There are hardly any photos of me online either for that reason, unless people look hard enough.”

“And until then, you will get unsuspecting seatmates to debate your books with you on flights.”

“Only if they’re avid readers.”

Carmilla’s hands were over her face again. “And I bought your ‘take a risk with getting to know strangers’ schtick, so I had convinced myself that it didn’t matter if I never found out what your name was,” she said. “Jesus _Christ_.”

“Hey, honestly?” Laura placed a hand lightly on her arm. “This is the first time I’ve done this and probably the last.”

“Seriously?” Carmilla couldn’t resist asking.

“Yeah,” Laura said. “You set the bar high. I don’t think I’ll meet someone this interesting or intelligent again. Not by chance, anyway.”

Carmilla chuckled, despite herself. “All right, keep being a sweet talker.”

“I’m not sweet talking,” Laura said. “I enjoyed our conversation. I mean it. I was going to introduce myself, you know, when we landed. Because,” for the first time since the revelation of her identity, her confidence seemed to falter, “I want us to keep talking.”

“Oh.” Carmilla blinked rapidly. She woke up that day cursing the fact she had to be on a plane on Christmas Eve. But the experience turned out to be more pleasant than she expected. All thanks to one Laura Hollis, author of a controversial book _and_ her chatty flight seatmate, who happened to be interesting—not to mention attractive. And apparently, unless Carmilla was misunderstanding, Laura thought the same of her, too.

“Sorry, am I being too forward?” Laura had just completely lost her witty brass from earlier. “I wanna keep talking, but only if you want to.”

Carmilla took a deep breath. “Of course,” she exhaled. This was probably the craziest Christmas Eve she has ever had. But what the hell, right? “Of course I want us to keep talking.”

* * *

They exchanged Threema PINs while in line for customs at Toronto airport. Past the initial awkwardness, both of them were happy that the flow of conversation had not been stemmed. Carmilla learned that Laura had been living in Sweden since February, researching and writing her next book on state responses to the emergence of militant white supremacist organisations in Scandinavian countries.

“The exhibit I’m working on opens on New Year’s Eve and closes on the first week of March,” Carmilla told her. “In case you’re interested in stopping by.”

Laura raised a playful eyebrow. “Will you give me a one-on-one tour?”

“Totally!” Carmilla said. She felt small and flustered, which was strange, considering that Laura was shorter than she was, and that, yes, for a thirtysomething, she did look about eighteen. “I mean, sure, if you want me to.”

“Oh yes, I would _love_ for you to,” Laura said, before a customs officer beckoned her over.

After passing customs, they walked alongside each other until Laura answered a call from her father. “Well, that’s me,” she said, as she hung up. “Promise you’ll stay in touch?”

“I have your PIN on my phone. There is _literally_ no going back,” Carmilla joked.

“So,” Laura’s eyes dropped to the floor, then back up to meet Carmilla’s, “I’ll see you in back in Stockholm, then?”

“Yeah,” Carmilla said. “You will.”

“All right then.” Laura took a step closer to Carmilla. She paused for a second, before leaning in to kiss Carmilla’s cheek, tantalisingly close to corner of her lips. When she pulled away, that bright smile was on her face. “I am looking forward to that very much.” She cupped Carmilla’s cheek lightly for a second, and then, in a quiet voice that held promise, said: “See you later.” She took her luggage cart and turned to walk in the direction of the arrivals hall.

Carmilla was still in a little bit of a daze until her phone beeped while she was in the taxi on the way to her hotel. It was a grey-skyed snowy day, not much different from what she left behind in Stockholm. She turned the screen on. It was a message from Laura.

_Welcome to Toronto. Happy holidays, you grinch._

Carmilla smiled. Perhaps she wasn’t so much of a grinch after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was the result of an AU prompt in which a writer sits next to someone on a plane who happens to be reading their book. It was partially inspired by David Levithan's "The Number of People You Meet on Airplanes" (which is probably one of my favourite short stories) and cheesy holiday-themed romcoms. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> P.S.: I am in love with art curator Carmilla and investigative journalist Laura.


End file.
